The Source. Part 1

THE SOURCE.

by Michael Cordy.

Author's Note

The Voynich Cipher Ma.n.u.script featured in this novel exists. Every detail of its appearance, unique text, bizarre ill.u.s.trations and known history is accurately described. The reproduced pages are from the original, which resides in Yale University's Beinecke Rare Book and Ma.n.u.script Library. Despite the best attempts of leading scholars and experts, including the cryptographers of America's vaunted National Security Agency, it has never been deciphered. To this day the Voynich Cipher remains the most mysterious ma.n.u.script in the world.Michael CordyLondon, 2008

Prologue

Rome, 1561When his eyes scan the small crowd she forces herself not to look away. If he is strong enough to endure this, then she is strong enough to watch.He hobbles on bandaged feet, charred and broken by the Inquisition's torturers, as the executioner makes him a final offer: recant and be garrotted mercifully before being tied to the stake, or refuse and be burnt alive. His eyes find hers and, defiantly, he shakes his head. She wants to signal her support and her love, but she cannot move. She is mesmerized by what is happening, and in shock from what he has asked her to do.What she has vowed to do.The auto de fe auto de fe is being held at night, in the torchlit courtyard of an anonymous church in the outskirts of Rome. A small group, less than twenty, has gathered round the lone stake. The Holy Mother Church has no desire to publicize this heretic's death or his heresy. She catches a flash of red in her peripheral vision, but doesn't divert her gaze when the Grand Inquisitor, Cardinal Prefect Michele Ghislieri, steps forward in his scarlet robes. The Grand Inquisitor has 'relaxed' the heretic to the secular authorities to perform the execution so the Holy Mother Church can abide by its maxim: is being held at night, in the torchlit courtyard of an anonymous church in the outskirts of Rome. A small group, less than twenty, has gathered round the lone stake. The Holy Mother Church has no desire to publicize this heretic's death or his heresy. She catches a flash of red in her peripheral vision, but doesn't divert her gaze when the Grand Inquisitor, Cardinal Prefect Michele Ghislieri, steps forward in his scarlet robes. The Grand Inquisitor has 'relaxed' the heretic to the secular authorities to perform the execution so the Holy Mother Church can abide by its maxim: ecclesia abhorret a sanguine ecclesia abhorret a sanguine, the Church shrinks from blood. But this is still his show. And with fire there will be no blood.'Burn his book with him,' the Grand Inquisitor orders. 'Burn the Devil's book with the heretic.' There is a moment of consternation as the executioner and the clerics search him and find nothing. 'Where is it?'A jolt of fear surges through her but the condemned man stays silent.'Heretic, surrender the book or face the consequences.'A bitter laugh. 'What more can you do to me?''Burn him,' orders the Inquisitor.The men drag him to the platform and rope him to the stake. They pile the final bundles of wood around the base, then apply torches. As the fire catches, she prays he will suffocate before the flames reach his flesh. Clutching the crucifix he gave her, she holds his gaze until the acrid smoke obscures his face. Only then does she allow the tears to come. As the smoke rises into the night sky and his flesh starts to burn to cook the sweet, disconcertingly familiar smell sickens her. His screams are mercifully short, but she takes little comfort from that.When the flames are at their height the Grand Inquisitor and his retinue leave. Then the others dissolve gradually into the night. Alone, she waits until only bone, ash and glowing embers are left. Then she approaches the pyre and collects what she can of his remains. As she bends she feels the ma.n.u.script concealed in her robes and hopes this 'Devil's book' is worth his torture and agonizing death. And she prays that it justifies the terrifying vow she made to him before he died.'In time all will be revealed,' she whispers, as she walks off into the dark night. 'Time reveals all.'

PART ONE.

The Devil's Book

1

Switzerland, four and a half centuries laterHe felt no fear at first, only sadness that it should end like this. He had made a fortune, ama.s.sed a portfolio of properties around the world, learnt several languages and bedded more beautiful women than he could remember, yet it seemed meaningless now. He had lived alone and would die alone, unremarked and unremembered, his body fed to animals or buried under concrete in a building site. It would be as if he had never lived, never existed.'Kneel in the middle of the plastic sheet.'As he knelt, hands clasped as if in prayer, he noted the surgical saw, Ziploc plastic bag and roll of duct tape by the killer's right foot. He didn't need to look up at the Glock 19 semi-automatic pistol in the a.s.sa.s.sin's left hand to know what was coming. He knew the procedure better than anyone: he had invented it. First there would be two bullets to the head. His left hand would be severed and placed in the Ziploc bag, then his body wrapped in the black plastic sheet and sealed with the duct tape. Finally, a vulture squad would be called to dispose of his corpse, and the killer would deliver his severed left hand to the client as proof of death.'You know who I am?' the killer asked.He nodded. 'La mano sinistra del diavolo, the left hand of the Devil. The most feared a.s.sa.s.sin in the world.''My real name. Do you know my real real ident.i.ty? Look at me. Look at my face.' ident.i.ty? Look at me. Look at my face.'It was now that the fear came paralysing fear. He couldn't look up. He was too frightened of what he would see.'Look at me,' the killer ordered. 'Look into the eyes of the man who destroyed your life and d.a.m.ned you to h.e.l.l for ever.'He looked up slowly. His heart seemed to stop in his chest. The killer's face was his own. As he trembled in terror, the din of fierce barking pierced his nightmare and dragged him to consciousness.Marco Bazin emerged slowly from his medicated sleep and opened his eyes, but the guard dogs outside his house still sounded like the hounds of h.e.l.l baying for his soul. Panicked and disoriented, he stared into the gloom. At first he didn't recognize his own bedroom: the clinic had filled it with so much equipment it was more like a hospital room. He wiped sweat from his forehead and scalp. His hair, thick for a man in his late forties, had been his one vanity. The surgeons had said it would grow back but had been less optimistic about purging the disease.He slowed his breathing and calmed himself. He despised fear. A few short months ago, before he had admitted himself to the exclusive Swiss clinic near his alpine retreat above Davos, he had been the source of fear: la mano sinistra del diavolo la mano sinistra del diavolo. He was renowned for the ruthless efficiency of his kills, and it was said that once a client gave him a name its owner was already dead.Now he he was about to die. was about to die.Bazin's hand brushed the crotch of his cotton pyjamas, as if reaching for what they had taken from him. The surgeons wished he had come to them earlier, before the aggressive non-seminoma could spread. They'd told him to watch for several symptoms when this last course of chemotherapy was over. But the cancer was only one of his problems.As he stared into the dark, listening to the instruments and his breathing, he took stock. He had told no one of his illness and the staff at the clinic had a.s.sured him of their total discretion. Yet he knew the whispering must have started. He had turned down three major jobs before he'd entered the clinic, and many other clients had tried to contact him while he had been incommunicado during surgery and chemotherapy. Soon the rumours would harden into conclusions, then actions. Clients would wonder why their calls had gone unanswered; some would suspect he was working for rivals. Enemies would scent blood and seek the opportunity to settle old scores. He may have been a lion once, a king of the jungle, but he was wounded now and the emboldened jackals were circling. If the cancer didn't get him, a bullet would. Either way he was dead.The dogs barked again and panic surged.For the first time since his childhood Bazin felt fear. Not of dying the novelty of that had long worn off but of what lay beyond death. Since diagnosis and surgery he had been forced to reflect on his life and concluded that, in exchange for losing his soul, killing for a living had yielded nothing of real value only money and its hollow trappings. A chill ran through him. He reached for the string of wooden rosary beads on the side table a childhood gift, kept more out of sentiment than faith. He focused on the expensive curtains drawn across the window and imagined the looming mountains beyond. Usually their beauty calmed him but now it intensified his loneliness.Why were the dogs still barking?He shook his head, trying to focus his mind, and checked the clock beside his bed. Three sixteen a.m. He heard the night nurse murmuring on the landing outside his room, then another, deeper, voice.Bazin sat up, dizzy and breathless.A man at least one was here. In his home. In the middle of the night. night.It was no surprise that his enemies would come for him when he was weak and defenceless. But how had they found him? No one at the clinic was aware of his profession, and hardly anyone knew the location of this house. But that meant nothing, he realized. Everyone had a price. He considered the people who had tried to hide from him in the past. He had found them. And killed them.Fear galvanized him. He had to live. He searched the gloom for something with which to defend himself, but the nurses had cleared everything away, except the equipment and medicines to keep him alive. There was nothing here with which to take a life.He listened as the footsteps approached the closed door, something oddly familiar in their irregularity. Ignoring the pain and fighting the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, he climbed out of bed. More sweat dripped from his forehead. They dared come for him only because they thought he was weak, half the man he had once been. But he'd show them. He tested the thin string of rosary beads. It snapped. He dropped the beads on the bed, yanked one end of the intravenous tube from the cannula in his wrist, the other from the drip stand, then pulled the tube tight in his hands. He steadied himself, then moved across the room and positioned himself behind the closed door.It opened slowly and a dagger of light cut across the rug. He no longer felt sick or weak as he focused on eradicating the threat to his life. The intruder stopped in the doorway, as if considering whether to enter. As soon as the man's head appeared Bazin pulled the garrotte round his neck and twisted it.With cheese-wire Bazin could garrotte a victim in seconds, rupturing the jugular and crushing the windpipe. However, the plastic tubing stretched, and as Bazin struggled to tighten it he noticed the man's clothing and that he was unarmed. Then he remembered the man's gait his limp. He yanked the intruder round so they faced each other. As he stared into the man's bulging eyes, Bazin froze. He knew why the man had come under the cover of darkness. Not to kill him, but to protect his own ident.i.ty from prying eyes. He was embarra.s.sed to be seen coming here. And that shamed Bazin.He loosened the tubing from the man's neck. 'Leo.' He didn't try to disguise his grat.i.tude. 'I can't believe you came.'The man rubbed his throat. 'You're my half-brother, Marco,' he rasped. 'You said you were dying. Of course I came.' His eyes filled with contempt. 'What do you want from me? What could you possibly possibly want from a priest?' want from a priest?'Now Bazin's grat.i.tude was mixed with anger and something that approximated love. Though larger and more powerful than his elder brother he had always felt in his shadow. Never good enough, always unworthy. He glanced at the rosary on the bed, then at his brother. 'I want redemption. I need need absolution before I die.' absolution before I die.'The intelligent dark eyes narrowed. 'You're serious?''Deadly serious.''Then go to confession.''I need to do more than say a few Hail Marys, much more . . .' He explained how he had spent his life. 'I must perform some service for the Church, some penance. Tell me what to do.'His brother's eyes looked deep into his, searching, evaluating. 'It no longer surprises me how many sinners come back to the Church at times of crisis. But you, Marco?' He sighed. 'G.o.d never gives up on a lost soul, provided their act of contrition is genuine.''Within my power I'll do anything the Church demands.'Those dark eyes probed his soul. 'Anything?''Yes,' said Bazin, collapsing to his knees. 'Anything at all.'

2

New York, five weeks laterAs soon as the limousine stopped outside the black gla.s.s tower in downtown Manhattan, Ross Kelly jumped out, suitcase in one hand, laptop in the other, and ran to the main doors. He had been cooped up in aeroplanes for the last twenty-four hours, and he was late. He dashed through the lobby, jumped into an empty lift and pressed floor thirty-three.He studied his reflection in the mirror and frowned. His suit was expensive and, with his tan, height and broad shoulders, should have flattered him, but it looked merely uncomfortable. He had always felt and looked better out in the field, wearing Timberlands, jeans and a hard hat, than in the office. He straightened his tie and patted down his unruly sandy hair as the lift pinged and the doors opened. He stepped out and approached a pair of double doors with 'Xplore Geological Consultancy Specialists in Oil and Gas' etched into the gla.s.s. A man in blue overalls was adding another line beneath it: 'A Division of Alascon Oil'. Ross stepped into the reception area. The rumours had been rumbling for months but he couldn't believe so much had changed while he'd been away in the remote Kokdumalak oilfields of southwestern Uzbekistan.His personal a.s.sistant, Gail, was pacing the floor. As soon as she saw him her face relaxed. 'Ross. Thank G.o.d you're here. How was Uzbekistan?''Good, but I'd have got more data if I hadn't had to rush back for this.' He checked his watch: ten twenty-two. 'Where's the meeting?'She took his suitcase from him. 'In the conference room. It's already started.''Didn't you tell them my plane was delayed?''They don't care.''What about Bill Bamford?''Gone. Ross, all all the old Xplore board have gone.' the old Xplore board have gone.''What about the handover?'She lowered her voice. 'There's not going to be one. All that talk about Alascon respecting Xplore's specialist expertise and wanting a partnership was garbage. It's a good old-fashioned takeover. Bill Bamford, Charlie Border and the rest have cleared their desks. They were escorted out of the building this morning.''How about you?''I can get a job anywhere. I only work here because of you.' She smiled. 'So, tell me if you're planning to leave.''You'll be the first to know, I promise.''Good. Now, if you want to save your ancient-oil project you'd better get going. These guys take no prisoners.' She shrugged. 'But I guess you already know that.''Yup.' Ross grimaced. When Xplore had headhunted him three years ago, he had been working as a geologist in Alascon's respected earth-sciences division. Xplore had offered good money but that wasn't why he'd joined the small oil consultancy. As one of the world's biggest oil companies, Alascon offered excellent training, but they were inflexible, arrogant and risk-averse. Xplore's visionary board had offered him the opportunity for genuine exploration and discovery that Alascon couldn't match. Now he'd be working for Alascon again and that troubled him. He smoothed his hair again and walked down the corridor to the conference room.As he approached, he heard his own voice. He stopped and peered through the gla.s.s. The lights were dimmed but he could see three Alascon executives sitting round the table, watching a plasma screen on which he was presenting his ancient-oil theory. He didn't 11 THE SOURCE recognize two of them: an older, bald guy with round gla.s.ses, and a freckled man with curly, greying ginger hair. At the sight of the third, a blond man in a charcoal grey suit, his heart sank. George Underwood was the main reason he had left Alascon. As Ross studied his old boss he couldn't help noticing that his his suit was immaculate. suit was immaculate.On screen, a sulphurous, molten ball of fire rotated in the blackness of s.p.a.ce. Vast meteorites, like red-hot missiles, rained down on it, scarring and deforming its already cratered surface. The charred planet seemed the last place in the universe where life could survive let alone take hold. Ross heard his voice again, calm and authoritative, describe the computer-generated images: 'In its infancy, four point five billion years ago, Earth was a primeval inferno, bombarded by asteroids and comets, its surface scorched by ultraviolet radiation while volcanic eruptions spewed noxious gases into the primitive atmosphere. But these asteroids and comets that rained down on our planet were loaded with amino acids, vital for the formation of life. Even today, forty thousand tons of meteorites fall to Earth every year. More than seventy varieties of amino acids have been found inside these s.p.a.ce rocks, eight of which are the fundamental const.i.tuents of proteins found in living cells.'The screen showed a spectacular impact.'Like sperm bombarding an egg, these seeds of life rained down on our planet and, amazingly, one just one one of those rocks triggered a reaction, a spark that germinated the earliest forms of bacteria somewhere on Earth. Equally amazingly, they thrived. Evidence now indicates that all life on this planet including each of us evolved from that one impact four and a half billion years ago.' of those rocks triggered a reaction, a spark that germinated the earliest forms of bacteria somewhere on Earth. Equally amazingly, they thrived. Evidence now indicates that all life on this planet including each of us evolved from that one impact four and a half billion years ago.'The screen shifted again showing fossil-imprinted rocks from Issua in Greenland and the Ustyurt plateau in Uzbekistan, near where Ross had just been working.'These early life forms became fossils, which, in turn, became fossil fuels oil. We now know that oil can be found in even older deposits than was at first believed. And it's this ancient oil that we should be focusing on.''Can you believe this?' said Underwood to the older guy. 'Ancient oil. I thought all oil was pretty d.a.m.n ancient.' oil. I thought all oil was pretty d.a.m.n ancient.'His laugh irritated Ross as he entered the room. 'By ancient, George, I mean oil that's a quarter of a billion years older than any previously discovered oil.'Underwood pressed a b.u.t.ton on the remote control and the screen reverted to the company logo. Then the window blinds rose, revealing the skyline of uptown Manhattan, gleaming in the May sunshine. He made a show of consulting his watch, then got up to shake Ross's hand. 'Long time no see.' He smiled. 'Let me introduce you to my colleagues.'Ross learnt that the greying-ginger guy was Brad Summers, the new financial officer, while the older man was David Kovacs, Xplore's new boss, responsible for a.s.similating the consultancy into Alascon.'So, ancient oil, Ross,' said Underwood. 'You really really believe it exists?' believe it exists?''Yes, I do.''Why, Dr Kelly?' asked Kovacs.Ross sat down. 'At the turn of the millennium the oldest known oil was one point five billion years old. However, we've recently found deposits in Uzbekistan at least two hundred and fifty million years older than that. The hydrocarbons in this ancient oil are a product of creatures living on Earth at least three point two billion years ago. This indicates that exceptionally old rocks contain untapped reserves that, until now, haven't been a priority for oil prospectors. It's only a matter of time, though, before others in the industry take an interest.'Underwood looked down at his notes. 'You're working on this with a client, Scarlett Oil. They're a pretty small company.''All our clients, here and overseas, are small-to-medium players with limited in-house geological expertise. That's why they use a consultancy.''And the odds on finding this ancient oil?'Ross smiled. 'A lot better than average.' Even with the most advanced technology the average strike rate for finding conventional oil deposits was still only 10 per cent. He pulled a palmtop computer from his jacket, opened it and placed it on the table. A geological map of the world appeared on its screen, highlighting the various rock patterns that indicated potential reserves of trapped oil. It always made Ross a little sad because it demonstrated not only man's knowledge of the Earth's surface and and what lay beneath but also a world stripped bare of its mysteries. 'My team have developed a software program that amalgamates the seismic, gravity-meter, magnetometer and geological data with satellite imagery and state-of-the-art global-positioning satellite technology to identify the world's most deposit-rich areas. By focusing on ancient rock sites, particularly high-yield cap and reservoir rock combinations, we can increase the odds of finding trapped oil.' Ross paused for effect. 'Our current modelled success rate is approaching twenty per cent. what lay beneath but also a world stripped bare of its mysteries. 'My team have developed a software program that amalgamates the seismic, gravity-meter, magnetometer and geological data with satellite imagery and state-of-the-art global-positioning satellite technology to identify the world's most deposit-rich areas. By focusing on ancient rock sites, particularly high-yield cap and reservoir rock combinations, we can increase the odds of finding trapped oil.' Ross paused for effect. 'Our current modelled success rate is approaching twenty per cent. Twice Twice the current level.' the current level.'Underwood nodded. 'But you've no actual data yet? Only modelled modelled data?' data?''That's why I went to Uzbekistan. To test the models.' He retrieved a folder from his laptop case and put it on the table. 'We need more time but the initial findings are good. Scarlett Oil's excited.''Oh, yes, the mighty mighty Scarlett Oil.' Underwood turned to the finance man. 'How much has this cost so far?' He had asked it as if he already knew the answer. Summers turned his laptop round so Underwood could see the screen. 'Wow! Xplore put a lot of time and money into this one. As much as Scarlett Oil.' Scarlett Oil.' Underwood turned to the finance man. 'How much has this cost so far?' He had asked it as if he already knew the answer. Summers turned his laptop round so Underwood could see the screen. 'Wow! Xplore put a lot of time and money into this one. As much as Scarlett Oil.'Ross clenched his jaw, determined to keep calm. 'George, it's an investment project, based on sound data, which is in the process of being proved in the field. We'll own the search-and-extraction technology, allowing us to offer smaller companies our client base the chance to steal a march on their bigger compet.i.tors. Including Alascon, unless it embraces this new opportunity.'Underwood leant over to Kovacs and exchanged whispers with him. Then Kovacs gathered his papers. 'Please don't misunderstand us, Dr Kelly,' he said. 'You have a great reputation within the industry and we want you on our team. But the only reason Alascon bought this small consultancy was because of its excellent contacts and business links with the Far East and the old Soviet republics. And because it was cheap.' He glanced at the finance man's spreadsheet. 'Frankly, given how Xplore spent money, I can see why. Dr Kelly, Alascon Oil doesn't care about speculative ventures with other, smaller, American oil companies. We have little to learn from them.' He pointed at Underwood. 'I'm putting George in charge of oil exploration. You and your team will report to him. I understand you've worked for him in the past.' He turned to Underwood. 'It's your call, George.''We want you to focus on developing your contacts in strategically important areas of the world, Ross,' Underwood said, 'in conventional oil. This ancient-oil research has to stop.''What about our relationship with Scarlett Oil?''What about them? They're small fry.'Ross gritted his teeth. 'But this will will make money. A lot of money. Soon.' He had invested two years of his working life on the project and believed pa.s.sionately in it. He picked up the folder from the table. 'Let me show you. All the new figures are in here. It's a no-brainer.' make money. A lot of money. Soon.' He had invested two years of his working life on the project and believed pa.s.sionately in it. He picked up the folder from the table. 'Let me show you. All the new figures are in here. It's a no-brainer.'Underwood gave a dismissive wave. 'I know it's your pet project, Ross, but Alascon has no interest in ancient oil, just the good old-fashioned kind.''But that's going to run out soon enough.' He slammed the folder on to the table. 'At least look at the latest figures.'Underwood flashed Kovacs a look that said, 'I told you he could be difficult,' then turned back to Ross. 'I've always admired your talent,' he said. 'You're a brilliant geologist and have a real gift for finding oil. Your one weakness is that you enjoy the adventure of exploration a little too much. To you the mystery is as sweet as the discovery, perhaps sweeter. Alascon isn't about making great discoveries but reducing risk. It doesn't care about excitement, adventure or mysteries, only results. And if you want to stay with this company, earning your very generous salary, you'd better accept that. I want you to direct your team to look for conventional deposits with immediate effect.'Ross said nothing. Two years' hard work dismissed just as it was about to yield dividends.Underwood frowned. 'Do you understand, Ross?'At that moment Ross saw his future career with Alascon in George Underwood's red face and jabbing finger. He was tired and had had enough. He stood to his full height, a head taller than Underwood, and looked down at his former, and would-be future, boss. He held his eyes until Underwood lost his nerve and glanced away. Ross reached for the folder on the desk and tore it into halves, then quarters and finally eighths.'Do you understand?' asked Underwood again, his voice shaking.'Take it easy, George,' warned Kovacs. 'Alascon needs guys like Dr Kelly. I'm sure he understands well enough.''You understand understand, Ross?' persisted Underwood.'Perfectly.' Ross kept the torn file in his right hand and retrieved his phone from his pocket with the left. He speed-dialled and Gail answered on the second ring. 'It's me,' he said, into the phone. 'I promised you'd be the first to know.' Staring at Underwood, he dropped the torn file on the man's head. 'I'm resigning,' he said.'Wait!' said Kovacs, leaping to his feet. 'That isn't necessary.'Loosening his tie, Ross put the phone and palmtop back into his jacket, then picked up his laptop and walked to the door. As he opened it, he turned back. 'It is necessary,' he said. 'For me.' Then he closed the door and walked away.

3

A few miles from the Xplore offices, the guest of honour was leaving the McNally Auditorium on the Lincoln Campus of Fordham University, the Jesuit university of New York. The priest had stayed as long as he had needed to at the conference and was satisfied that he had discharged his duties. Now he was impatient to get away. After thanking his hosts and dismissing his entourage he walked so fast to his official limousine that his limp was barely noticeable.In the back seat, concealed behind tinted gla.s.s, he checked his watch. He had plenty of time before his return flight to Rome tonight. 'Yale University,' he told the driver. 'The Beinecke.'As the car drove north towards Henry Hudson Parkway, he turned his mind to what had occupied him since he had arrived in America a few days before. He opened his attache case and began to study the photocopy of a 450-year-old trial doc.u.ment that his office had discovered in the Inquisition files of the Vatican's secretum secretorum secretum secretorum, the archive of the Church's most sensitive secrets. As he read the hand-written Latin, one of five languages he spoke fluently, his mind whirled with the threats and opportunities it presented.If what he had heard was true.An hour and a half later, the limousine pulled up outside Yale University's Beinecke Rare Book and Ma.n.u.script Library, one of the largest buildings in the world devoted entirely to rare books. A white oblong structure covered with translucent marble 'windows', which resembled the indentations on a golf ball, it contrasted sharply with Yale's more traditional buildings. The priest, however, ignored the unusual architecture as he climbed the steps.They were expecting him at the front desk and a senior researcher escorted him to the main hall.'It's not very busy,' said the priest.'No.' A flush of excitement suffused the researcher's face. 'But it will be this evening. We're expecting quite a turnout for the open seminars. One of the talks promises to be dynamite.' He pointed to a Plexiglas box, displayed prominently on a plinth in the centre of the hall. It was empty. 'All this week the book's been displayed here, but we've arranged for you to study it in one of the reading rooms for half an hour. If you need more access, digital copies of the pages can be studied on the Internet, on one of the terminals over there.' The man led him to a small, subtly lit room and handed him a pair of white gloves. 'You may only touch it when you're wearing these.'The priest approached the reading table. 'Thank you.'The researcher cleared his throat. 'The Voynich is one of my specialist areas. What can I tell you about it?''Nothing.' As the priest put on the white gloves, he doubted there was anything the man could tell him that he didn't know already. 'I just need some time alone to see it in the flesh, as it were.''Right.' The man hovered, then moved to the door. 'I'll leave you to it, then. Call me if you want anything.'But the priest was no longer listening. He was staring, transfixed, at the book. The yellowing doc.u.ment looked unremarkable. Only when his gloved hands slowly turned the pages did its mystery become apparent. They were filled with unrecognizable text, and decorated with crude colour ill.u.s.trations of bizarre plants that resembled known flora but were actually like nothing on Earth. Other pictures included naked women with unnaturally rounded bellies floating in green liquid.[image][image][image]The ill.u.s.trations were no more sophisticated than a child's, but that didn't detract from their power. The Beinecke Library's catalogue entry lay beside the book: 'Almost every page contains botanical and scientific drawings, many full-page, of a provincial but lively character, in ink washes and various shades of green, brown, yellow, blue and red. Based on the subject matter of the drawings, the contents of the ma.n.u.script fall into six sections.''Botany' contained drawings of 113 unidentified plant species, accompanied by text. The astronomical, or astrological, section had twenty-five astral diagrams. 'Biology' included drawings of small-scale female nudes, most with bulging abdomens and exaggerated hips, immersed or emerging from fluid, interconnecting tubes or capsules. The pages dealing with pharmaceuticals contained drawings of more than a hundred herbs, while the remaining two sections were composed of continuous text and an ill.u.s.trated folding page.The world had been fascinated by it since 1912, when the book dealer Wilfrid Voynich had come across the 134-page volume at the Villa Mondragone, a Jesuit college in Frascati, Italy. A letter dated 1666 had been tucked inside it; the rector of the University of Prague had asked a well-known scholar to attempt to decipher the text. According to the letter, the Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II of Bohemia had bought it for six hundred gold ducats.A faded signature on the first page of the ma.n.u.script read 'Jacobus de Tepenec'. Records showed that Jacobus Horcicky had been born into a poor family and raised by Jesuits to become a wealthy chemist at Rudolf 's court. In 1608 he had been granted the n.o.ble name 'de Tepenec' for having saved the emperor's life. His role in the ma.n.u.script's history, however, was less clear. Some believed that Rudolf had given it to him to decipher, others that when the emperor abdicated in 1611, and died a year later, the ma.n.u.script had come into Horcicky's possession 'by default'. Whatever had happened, the ma.n.u.script had found its way somehow to the Jesuit college where Voynich rediscovered it. Many claimed it had come originally from Italy, where it had been stolen from one of the Jesuit libraries and sold to Emperor Rudolf, and that agents of the Catholic Church had eventually reclaimed it, then allowed it to fall into obscurity once more.The ma.n.u.script's ill.u.s.trations were bizarre but it was the text that had most intrigued Voynich and the countless others who had tried in vain to decipher it. The symbols were teasingly familiar, often resembling roman letters, Arabic numerals and Latin abbreviations. Elaborate gallows-shaped characters decorated many beginnings of lines, while an enigmatic swirl, like '9', could be found at the end of many words.When Voynich had brought the ma.n.u.script to the United States he had invited cryptographers to examine it, but to no avail. In 1961 H. P. Krause, a New York antiquarian book dealer, had bought it, and in 1969 he donated it to Yale University's Beinecke Rare Book and Ma.n.u.script Library. In the 1960s and 1970s the National Security Agency had put their best crypta.n.a.lysts to work on it, but even they failed.In the last ten years, researchers employing a battery of statistical methods, including entropy and spectral a.n.a.lysis, discovered that Voynichese as the language of the text became known displayed statistical properties consistent with natural languages, which suggested that it was unlikely to be the random writings of a madman or fraud. They also discovered that the text read from left to right and employed between twenty-three and thirty individual symbols, of which the entire ma.n.u.script contained around 234,000, which amounted to about 40,000 words, with a vocabulary of perhaps 8,200. Most words were six characters long and showed less variation than those of English, Latin and other Indo-European languages. But still no one was any closer to knowing what the ma.n.u.script said, who had written it, or why.Until now. Apparently.There was a discreet knock at the door. His half-hour was up. He lingered a moment longer, mesmerized, sensing that the book was about to change his life for ever, and that G.o.d was guiding him. He removed the gloves, and allowed his bare fingers to brush the ma.n.u.script.When the door opened and the researcher entered, the priest thanked him, stole one last look at the Voynich, then went back to the lobby.He paused by a poster announcing that evening's open seminar: 'Solving the Riddle'. Billed as the highlight of Voynich Week, there would be three presentations. A British mathematician from Cambridge University and a computer specialist from MIT were to present the latest techniques for decoding the text. But it was the third that interested the priest: 'The Voynich Ma.n.u.script: A Doomed Quest for Eldorado?'He clutched his attache case tighter and thought of the photocopied doc.u.ment within it. The original recorded the trial and testimony of a Jesuit priest burnt at the stake for heresy. It also recorded the existence of a book that should have been burnt with him: The Devil's Book The Devil's Book.He confirmed the time of the last presentation, satisfied he could still make his flight, then checked the name of the academic giving it: Dr Lauren Kelly.

4

Sitting on the New Haven line train from Grand Central to Darien, Ross Kelly was preoccupied with thoughts of his career. Geology had not been a popular or easy choice for a schoolboy growing up in the Bible Belt. His mother had believed the Earth was created a few thousand years ago and that the Great Flood was the major geologically related event in human history. Creationism might have morphed into Intelligent Design, but things hadn't changed much and not only in the Bible Belt: the new pope had recently rejected Darwinian evolution in favour of G.o.d's guiding hand in all aspects of creation.But Ross had always fought for his pa.s.sions. Ever since he was a boy, growing up on his father's farm in the shadow of the Ozark mountains, he had seen geology as a romantic, magical science that charted Earth's history over an unimaginably deep chasm of time. He could still remember the hairs standing up on the back of his neck when he'd first read that Mount Everest was made of rock that had once formed the floor of the oceans. How could anyone not marvel at the sheer pressure and time involved in pushing the Himalayas from the bottom of the sea to the top of the world?A scholarship to study geology at Princeton, a PhD from MIT and his first years with the earth-sciences division of the mighty Alascon had fuelled his wonder. It was quickly apparent, though, that the oil industry cared more about making profit than exploring the world's treasures. When Xplore, then a lean, progressive search consultancy, had headhunted him, their desire for fresh ideas had rekindled his pa.s.sion.But his career there was over now: the visionaries who had recruited him had gone, swept away by men like Underwood and Kovacs, who had more in common with accountants than with explorers. And he had no illusions that other companies in the industry would be any different in embracing anything new.On the short taxi drive home from the station, Ross contemplated his future. He tried not to think about whether he had made the right decision, or what his wife would say. As the driver pulled into the kerb he saw his ancient Mercedes convertible parked next to Lauren's economical Prius. He had acquired the so-called cla.s.sic car after he'd joined Xplore. Back then it had seemed to symbolize his success. Now, like his career, its l.u.s.tre had faded and it looked what it was an old car covered with bird s.h.i.t. A third car, small and boxy, was parked alongside. Ross groaned: he was in no mood for visitors. His work took him all over the world, but when he came home he wanted to be alone with his wife. He enjoyed nothing better than a bottle of Pinot Noir, pizza, making love and squabbling over the TV remote he'd never understand why someone as smart as Lauren preferred reality makeover shows to cla.s.sic comedies, a good movie or anything by David Attenborough on the Discovery channel. He paid the man, got out and crunched across the gravel to the white clapperboard house he had mortgaged himself to the hilt to buy.The front door opened and Lauren appeared. In the early-afternoon light, her honey-blonde bob gleamed, her soft green eyes sparkled and her skin glowed. Just seeing her made him feel better. The door opened wider, to reveal another striking woman. While his wife was conventionally beautiful, her a.s.sistant at Yale was the opposite. Elizabeth 'Zeb' Quinn resembled a strange blend of punk and geek. Her long, curly hair was dyed henna-red and she wore thick gla.s.ses, second-hand jeans, a shapeless hemp jacket and a T-shirt proclaiming: Gaia's Your Mother! So Stop Killing Her! Gaia's Your Mother! So Stop Killing Her!Lauren rushed to kiss him. 'Ross, you're back G.o.d, I'm so happy to see you.''Not as happy as me.' He held her tight, enjoying the smell of her hair, then looked over her shoulder. 'Hi, Zeb.'Elizabeth Quinn smiled and raised a hand in greeting. Ross and she had as civil a relationship as any oilman could have with an ecowarrior who believed everybody in his industry was raping the planet. 'Don't worry, I'll leave you two alone. I was just helping Lauren with her presentation tonight.''Presentation?'Lauren rolled her eyes. 'You know, the Voynich. The translation. My big night.''Oh, yes . . .' He'd pushed it to the back of his mind because he hadn't planned to get back from Uzbekistan until the end of the week just in time for them to fly off on their first vacation in years: two weeks' caving in the jungles of Borneo followed by a week on the beach in Malaysia. He had fought for the time off work but that, of course, was no longer a problem.'Welcome home, Ross,' said Zeb, and got into her little hybrid car. 'See you both later. Good luck tonight, Lauren, and whatever Knight says, don't give away any more than you need to.''I won't. Thanks.' They waited for her to drive away, then Lauren put her arm through Ross's and led him indoors.He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small rock. Its opaque metallic surface made it look like gold in the sunlight streaming into the hall. He always brought Lauren an unusual specimen from a field trip. 'It's Schreibersite, a rare meteor stone.''It's beautiful. Thank you.' She smiled, eyes bright with excitement. 'I'm glad you had to rush back I've got amazing news.''Great.' He paused. 'I've got some news, too, about the takeover I mentioned on the phone.''Tell me.''I've resigned.'Ross wasn't sure what reaction he'd been expecting but it wasn't the one he got. Lauren burst out laughing.'What's so funny?' He had always admired and envied her relaxed approach to money. She came from a relatively wealthy New York family and didn't equate it with security as he did. Nevertheless, even she had to understand the implications for the mortgage. Then again, she had always counselled him against buying such an expensive house and would probably downgrade quite happily.She shook her head, trying to control herself. 'I'm sorry, Ross. I'm not laughing at you, just the timing.''Why? What's your amazing news? Don't tell me your career's taken yet another stellar turn as I've flushed mine down the drain.''It's our our amazing news. I saw the doctor today. We're having a baby.' amazing news. I saw the doctor today. We're having a baby.'For a second he didn't know what to say. They had been trying for a child for years, but after three unsuccessful rounds of IVF, they had virtually given up. He swept her into his arms. 'That's fantastic! How long?''I'm almost three months.''Three months.' He stroked her belly, imagining his child growing inside her. 'Why didn't you tell me before?''I only just found out. Must have happened when you came back from that long trip to Saudi you remember how we made up for lost time?'He smiled.'And don't worry about your job, Ross. You always feel so responsible for providing us with everything everything. But we're fine. More than fine. If the faculty members don't make me a full professor after tonight, they're bound to when I translate the final section of the Voynich. A Yale professorship might not pay as much as selling your soul to Big Oil but it's enough.'He kissed her. 'I'm not worried. The only real problem is our vacation. We'll have to cancel the caving expedition far too strenuous for a woman in your condition and spend the whole time on the beach.''That suits me fine.''I bet it does.' He laughed. She always preferred to laze on a beach and read while he got bored after a few days and wanted to explore. Right now, though, spending a few weeks on a beach with Lauren sounded pretty good. He checked his watch. 'What time's your presentation? I was going to get some shut-eye before you shared your other other amazing achievement with the world but now I'm too excited to sleep.' amazing achievement with the world but now I'm too excited to sleep.'

5

Yale UniversityThat evening as they arrived at the Beinecke Library, Lauren squeezed Ross's hand and kissed him. 'I want to know you're in the audience,' she whispered, as they got out of his car, 'but don't sit too close to the front or you'll make me nervous.'Rooms thirty-eight and thirty-nine of the Beinecke had been combined to form a lecture theatre capable of sitting seventy, and Ross took a seat at the back. The room filled fast and he saw Zeb Quinn's red curls at the front. A man in a tweed jacket sat next to her: Bob Knight, Yale's professor of linguistics and Lauren's head of faculty. Ross didn't like him. He had a reputation as a ruthless self-publicist who shamelessly took credit for other people's work. Lauren had tried to keep hers under wraps until she was ready to discuss it, but he had pressured her into revealing details of her initial findings tonight, during Voynich Week.A priest with sharp features and dark, hooded eyes took the seat beside Ross. Any member of the public could attend the open seminar, but it was obvious from all of the cord and tweed jackets that most of the audience were academics, researchers and Voynich aficionados. Kelly wondered what a priest was doing there.The lights dimmed and the first two speakers spoke at such length about spectral a.n.a.lysis, number sequences, polyalphabetic ciphers and other esoteric aspects of the crypta.n.a.lyst's dark arts that they made the world's most mysterious ma.n.u.script sound tedious and obscure. Torpor descended on the stuffy room and Ross, exhausted and jet-lagged, struggled to stay awake. To his surprise, the priest sat tense and expectant, radiating energy.Then Lauren stood up and the mood in the room changed. For all her gravitas, she exuded warmth, her full lips constantly on the verge of smiling. Her blonde hair and emerald dress set off her eyes as she gazed confidently at the audience. This was what they had come to hear. The priest took a notebook and pen out of his pocket. As Ross watched Lauren arrange her notes and introduce herself, he felt a surge of fierce pride that she was his wife and would soon be the mother of his child. He was no dullard but he felt ordinary compared to Lauren. Her PhD had been about conserving dying languages, but for the last few years she had focused on the riddle of the Voynich Cipher, and had succeeded where all those before her had failed. Where they had crunched numbers and a.n.a.lysed sequences on a computer, she had used her expertise in her own field.As a child, Lauren had once written to her parents, 'I don't like this school. It's boring,' in fifty different languages. Her parents had moved her. She still cherished the knowledge that in Amazonia there was a dialect called Tariana, which required a speaker to include a supporting suffix after everything they said, or their listener would a.s.sume they were lying; that there was a Caucasian language with no vowels, and a South Asian dialect whose innumerable verbs included gobray gobray (to fall into a well knowingly) and (to fall into a well knowingly) and onsra onsra (to love for the last time). It upset her that of the six thousand languages left in the world more than half would be extinct by the end of the twenty-first century. (to love for the last time). It upset her that of the six thousand languages left in the world more than half would be extinct by the end of the twenty-first century.Lauren cleared her throat and the room fell silent. She began to read.' "Welcome, fellow scholar, your efforts have not been in vain. Though your name and mine are insignificant this story is not. Know this: discoveries may excite our blood but mysteries sustain our soul. When we're strong and arrogant, mysteries remind us how little we know of G.o.d's world. And when we are weak and desperate, they encourage us to believe that anything is possible." ' Lauren looked up and smiled. 'You've just heard the opening lines of the Voynich, expressed for the first time in English.'A low murmur rippled through the audience, like wind through a field of barley. Text from the Voynich flashed up on the screen behind Lauren. She continued, 'With my a.s.sistant Zeb's help I've now translated all of the ma.n.u.script, except the astrology section. I won't present a verbatim transcript until I've completed it.' She glanced meaningfully at Knight. 'Having been asked to share a synopsis of its contents, however, I can tell you that I found no no code.' The audience's murmuring grew to a buzz and people were scribbling notes. 'I'm now convinced that Voynichese is a synthetic language. Those linguists among you will know that there are two types: a code.' The audience's murmuring grew to a buzz and people were scribbling notes. 'I'm now convinced that Voynichese is a synthetic language. Those linguists among you will know that there are two types: a posterior posterior language, which is based on existing languages, the most famous example being Esperanto, and a language, which is based on existing languages, the most famous example being Esperanto, and a priori priori language, which is created from scratch. The latter is virtually impossible to translate without knowledge of the creator's rules of grammar and vocabulary, which in this case we don't have. Luckily for us, however, Voynichese appears to be of the language, which is created from scratch. The latter is virtually impossible to translate without knowledge of the creator's rules of grammar and vocabulary, which in this case we don't have. Luckily for us, however, Voynichese appears to be of the posterior posterior variety: a blend of two ancient languages, which have then been transliterated into the unique symbols we see in the text.' variety: a blend of two ancient languages, which have then been transliterated into the unique symbols we see in the text.'A hand shot up from the audience. 'Which two languages?'The priest's fingers were working at a string of rosary beads.Lauren shook her head. 'I'm not prepared to reveal the root languages until I've completed the translation. Then I'll make a full announcement and publish all my supporting work.''Are you sure there's no code in the text?' asked a woman at the front.The priest's fingers moved faster on the beads.'With Zeb's computer models, we realized early on that a code was unlikely,' Lauren said. 'Given the age of the doc.u.ment and the intractable nature of the text, any code would have had to be a polyalphabetic cipher. But our entropy a.n.a.lyses, which looked at the pattern of symbols in the text, showed that it was too regular, too much like a proper language, to be a code.'The priest's hand shot up. 'Dr Kelly, before you share with us how you translated the Voynich, perhaps you could tell us what your translation has revealed?' His English was perfect but held the faint trace of an Italian accent.Lauren nodded. 'First, let me apologize to all those who, like me, hoped the ma.n.u.script contained some secret. Contrary to certain claims, the Voynich Cipher wasn't written by the medieval monk Roger Bacon and, sadly, it's not an ancient Cathar text, a wizard's treatise on alchemy, a mystic's vision, a message from G.o.d, written in the language of angels, or any of the other fanciful things many believed.'There were audible sighs of disappointment.'The Voynich is simply the story of a mythic quest in the cla.s.sic tradition, an allegory of man's greed that shows a prescient awareness of today's environmental concerns. I've purposely translated it without trying to reproduce the archaic language of the time to highlight the sense. It tells of a scholar priest who accompanies a troop of soldiers into a vast jungle in search of Eldorado the fabled city of gold. His mission is to chronicle their adventure and to claim the souls of the conquered for his church. The gruelling quest decimates the soldiers, leaving them lost in the middle of the forest. Just as they abandon hope, they stumble across a garden filled with strange plants and inhabited by even stranger nymphlike women and other bizarre creatures. It turns out to be both an Eden and h.e.l.l. They find wonders and miracles there, but something terrible too. Only the scholar priest lives to tell the tale.'As Lauren recounted the story in more detail she used the screen to punctuate her narrative with disturbing ill.u.s.trations from the ma.n.u.script. The audience listened politely. Her synopsis was only a theory until she published and her full findings were accepted. The priest, however, appeared transfixed, his sharp features expressing a blend of incredulity, wonder and concern.'Our unknown author provides one final twist. Not only does he employ a unique language, present us with bizarre ill.u.s.trations and an even more bizarre story, but he and I a.s.sume it's a he claims that the fabulous garden ill.u.s.trated and described in the ma.n.u.script actually exists, and that his story is true. This is how he concludes: "Congratulations, fellow scholar, you have read my story and so proved your dedication, intelligence and wisdom. Whatever your faith, G.o.d has now chosen you to do what I cannot: keep His garden safe and ensure its miraculous powers are used for His glory. One day, mankind will doubtless need these powers. I only pray it deserves them. Amen." ' She smiled. 'Because of the extraordinary pains he took to tell his story, it's tempting to think it might be true, and that he created his ingenious language to guard its secret.'The room was buzzing again.'You have no idea of the author's ident.i.ty?' asked the priest.'No. He doesn't give his name.''What do you expect to find in the astrological section you haven't yet translated?' demanded another voice.'A map?' someone shouted.Lauren raised her hands for calm. 'Before we get too excited, we must remember that at the time the Voynich was written, in the late sixteenth century, encrypting doc.u.ments was extremely fashionable. So, sadly, I'm afraid the likelihood is that the author simply possessed an extraordinary intellect, a mischievous sense of humour and the leisure time to indulge both.'She waited for the audience's laughter to subside. 'Nevertheless, the Voynich is still a work of genius and if you want to read my synopsis of the translated story I suggest you visit the Beinecke pages on Yale's website.'In the hallway outside the meeting room, members of the audience besieged Lauren with questions.Watching her, Ross felt a stab of regret and envy. After his PhD he, too, could have carved out a career in academia. Harvard and three other good colleges had offered him positions to continue his studies, but he had declined them. If, after graduating from high school, you tell your parents that their only child their only son son has no interest in taking over the struggling farm that's been in the family for generations, but is leaving to take up a scholarship at Princeton, you'd better be successful. To Ross, that meant making money. A lot of it. So he had joined Big Oil. And, if he was honest, he had never wanted to be an academic. He has no interest in taking over the struggling farm that's been in the family for generations, but is leaving to take up a scholarship at Princeton, you'd better be successful. To Ross, that meant making money. A lot of it. So he had joined Big Oil. And, if he was honest, he had never wanted to be an academic. He liked liked the buccaneering cut and thrust of oil exploration, journeying to the more inhospitable parts of the world and finding what no one else could. the buccaneering cut and thrust of oil exploration, journeying to the more inhospitable parts of the world and finding what no one else could.How quickly things had changed, though. He had once been the shining star with the glittering career ahead of him, while Lauren had been the dedicated academic destined to spend her career in worthy obscurity. Now her star was in the ascendant and, as he watched her fielding questions, he realized she had no idea of how huge her achievement was. She hoped her translation of the Voynich would bring her promotion within her faculty but it was clear to Ross that, once she had completed it, she could take her pick of any job in her field across the world. Suddenly he had a vision of himself as a house-husband, looking after their baby, while Lauren ascended to even greater heights. He consoled himself with the thought of their three-week holiday. He would worry about finding another job when they got back.Lauren smiled and beckoned to him, but the priest suddenly engaged her in conversation. Though not a big man he had a commanding presence. Ross watched him introduce himself and, above the hubbub, heard him say: 'I asked if you knew the author's name because I've seen confidential Vatican files that may reveal his ident.i.ty and help to unlock the final astrological section.'Lauren's eyes widened. 'Really?''Yes. I rather hoped we might collaborate.''I'd certainly love to see the files.''We'll happily show you everything in exchange for certain conditions.''Such as?''The Vatican needs to retain some control over publication to restrict circulation of anything that might be injurious to the Church.'Lauren flashed her most polite and dangerous smile, from which Ross knew the priest would leave empty-handed. 'I'm sorry but I must decline your kind offer,' she said.'I'm speaking on behalf of the Society of Jesus,' the priest said, as if it was unthinkable anyone could refuse. 'This is for the Holy Mother Church.''That's as may be, Father, but this is a personal project and I don't believe in putting any any restrictions on academic scholarship.' restrictions on academic scholarship.'There was an awkward pause. Then the priest reached into his robes and handed her a card. 'I have to respect your decision, Dr Kelly, but if you change your mind please don't hesitate to contact me.'As she took the card, Bob Knight intervened smoothly: 'If Dr Kelly's tight-lipped, Father, don't take it personally. She guards the privacy of her work fiercely, keeping most of her files at home. I'm her head of faculty and I barely knew the detail of what she was presenting tonight.' He took Lauren's arm and steered her away. 'Now, if you'll excuse us . . .'As Knight led Lauren to the end of the corridor the priest stared after them. He was older than Ross had first thought, although his blue-black hair contained little grey and his face was unlined but for the frown marks between his eyes. Suddenly the man turned, and as the priest's dark eyes met his, Ross saw that he was seething with rage and frustration.When Lauren returned, beaming with excitement, Ross put his arm round her and escorted her to the exit. 'Congratulations. You certainly got everyone around here buzzing. That priest seemed pretty intense, though.'She grimaced. 'He said the Vatican had files that might interest me, but he wanted some kind of gag, so I pa.s.sed.''And Knight? He looked pretty excited.''He is.' Outside in the cool night air, she gave him a strange pleading smile. 'You want the good news or the bad?'Ross had never been a fan of bad news. 'The good.''Knight's promising me whatever I want at the faculty. I'll be a full professor, significant salary rise, everything.''That's great.''He wants me to translate the last section as soon as possible. Says there's a lot of interest out there right now.'Ross knew where this was heading. 'But we're going on vacation for three weeks.'Again the pleading smile. 'I know. That's the bad news.'

6

Rome, the next dayBecause of their power it is said that there are three popes in Rome: the White Pope, the pontiff; the Red Pope, the Grand Inquisitor, now known as the Cardinal Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith; and the Black Pope, the head of the Jesuits, the Superior General of the Society of Jesus.The evening after Dr Lauren Ross's seminar at Yale, all was quiet within the walls of the Vatican, and even the surrounding bustle of Rome seemed muted. However, the Black Pope's mind was jangling as he entered the labyrinth of rooms and corridors that adjoined the Apostolic Library. On last night's flight from JFK to Rome's Leonardo da Vinci airport, Father General Leonardo Torino had been unable to sleep, thinking through the implications of Dr Ross's findings. Though exhausted, he had been desperate to rush to the Inquisition Archives and recheck the original doc.u.ment against the photocopy in his case, but first he had had to debrief his staff on his visit to the New York Province of the Society of Jesus and their conference at Fordham University. Then he had had to sit through interminable meetings with the Curia as they discussed plans to set up a second Vatican state in the developing world. Finally, he had updated the Holy Father on the work of the Inst.i.tute of Miracles even though all it seemed to do was disprove their existence in the modern age.Torino had only convinced the new pope to reinstate the ancient inst.i.tute because the last pontiff had devalued their currency, approving more miracles and canonizing more saints than at any other time in the Church's history. As the largest and most intellectually rigorous order in the Roman Catholic Church, the Society of Jesus was uniquely qualified to prove miracles to support the canonization of saints and reveal to the world incontrovertible proof of the hand of G.o.d. Since its reinstatement, however, the inst.i.tute had not validated a single one. In fact, Torino had been personally responsible for reversing at least six previously established miracles.But that might change if what he'd heard at Yale was genuine.As he reached the secretum secretorum secretum secretorum, the Church's most sensitive archive, the curator was locking the door for the night. 'Don't close it yet,' Torino ordered. 'I need to check something.'The old man, head down, continued to turn the large key in the lock. 'It's late. Can't you come back tomorrow?' He looked up, recognized Torino's black robes and his face flickered with fear. 'Father General, I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was you.'Torino strode into the dusty, unprepossessing network of rooms and headed for the back chamber. Since the Vatican had opened the Inquisition Archives in 1998 most scholars had focused on celebrated trials, particularly that of Galileo, the scientist who famously shook the Church by claiming and proving that the Earth revolved around the sun and not vice versa. However, the obscure case that Torino wished to re-examine was potentially no less controversial.A year after the reinstatement of the inst.i.tute, he had despaired of finding a genuine miracle. In this media age, claimants had nothing to lose and everything to gain by falsifying them, so he had instructed the scholars charged with running the inst.i.tute to look back into the past, to the Inquisition Archives, and seek out those who had braved torture and death to proclaim their miracles. One case they found had fired Torino's imagination: the testimony and trial of Father Orlando Falcon, a fellow Jesuit, who had not just experienced one miracle but discovered a wondrous and terrible place filled filled with them. with them.The file was tucked away in a corner. Until his scholars had found and photocopied it a few months ago, the contents had probably not been read for hundreds of years. Ignoring the watching curator, and the large sign forbidding the removal of original doc.u.ments from the archive, the Superior General placed the four-and-a-half-centuries-old ma.n.u.script in his briefcase, left the room and headed for his apartment in the Curia Generalizia, the International Headquarters of the Society of Jesus.

7

The high ceilings, antique furniture and ornate rugs afforded the official residence of the Jesuit Superior General a faded splendour, but the ancient air-conditioning made it claustrophobically warm. Exhausted, Torino dismissed his staff, retired to his bedroom and opened the windows.There were two framed photographs on the bedside table. One, of himself as a child at the Jesuit orphanage in Naples, reminded him of where he had come from, and the other of what he had achieved: in it, Torino stood in the black robes of his office beside the Holy Father. Above the bed hung a crucifix and beside the desk two gilt-framed diplomas: a medical degree from the University of Milan and a PhD in theology. He placed his laptop on the bed and emptied his briefcase beside it.Torino's hand trembled as he poured himself a gla.s.s of cold water from the jug on the table. He gulped it, then sat at the desk and opened the ancient file.As he turned the yellowed vellum, the Latin text seemed to greet him like an old friend:On the day of Thursday 8th of the month of July 1560 in the presence of His Excellency, the Grand Inquisitor, Cardinal Prefect presence of His Excellency, the Grand Inquisitor, Cardinal Prefect Michele Ghislieri. Being summoned to the Holy Inquisition, there Michele Ghislieri. Being summoned to the Holy Inquisition, there appeared Father Orlando Falcon, a Jesuit Priest, charged with appeared Father Orlando Falcon, a Jesuit Priest, charged with heresy. heresy.. . . It was asked him, 'Father Orlando, what was the mis